


Looking Ahead

by dinopire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - College/University, Animal Death, Biracial Harry Potter, Bisexual Harry Potter, M/M, South Asian Harry, artist!Tom, desi!Harry, photographer!harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinopire/pseuds/dinopire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is an art student, but his art lacks feeling. He's criticized for not understanding art and wasting his talent. Harry is a photography student who finds work modelling for Tom's art class. Tom finds his muse in Harry, but mere interest quickly develops into obsession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to jaleesa for all her help (it was a lot), she beta'd this shit when all she wanted to do was sleep. a true hero. a champion. a god among men. this fic is for her even though she doesn't like au's. also pepa, michelle, rachel and everyone else in the group chat. this fic is completely self-indulgent. lmao end my life. original au idea by agendertomriddle on tumblr.

“They fired you?” Hermione echoed Harry’s previous statement, pausing in her action of stirring sugar into her coffee. “Oh that’s awful Harry, I’m sorry. Did they say why?”

“I was late for my shift one too many times.” His mood was dismal and it showed as he wearily pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Not my fault I have rotten luck. The train late every single time, for some reason or another.”

“Well, at least you still have your pizza delivery job.” She was gnawing on her bottom lip, mind at work as usual. “What about your savings?”

“Uh- about that…”

“ _Harry_.”

“The camera was on sale! I’ve wanted it for ages you know that, Hermione.”

“You should always try to have money saved up for when things like this happen.”

“I do! I can pay my rent for maybe… the next two months. If you forget about eating.” He was used to instant noodles for dinner, anyway. It was nothing compared to Mrs. Weasley’s home made food but he could deal with it.

“It’s so difficult to find a job nowadays.” She had completely pushed her coffee aside and was fiddling with her phone. “I’ll text Ron, maybe he knows about any openings.”

“It’s fine, really!” Harry, ever conscious of troubling others, held out his hand as if trying to stop her.

“Really, Harry. You know we’ll always help you out.” She paused, looking up and offering Harry a tired smile. She had been overworked recently: it showed in the bags under her eyes and the extra frizziness of her hair. It just made Harry feel guilty for bringing up his own problems, but it had just slipped out.

They were sitting in a coffee shop, having met up after not seeing each other for two weeks. Hermione went to an entirely different University, but it happened to not be too far from his own, so they tried to make some time to meet up someway once in a while.

Ron couldn’t make it so it was just the two of them, catching up. Hermione had been telling him about something or another that happened at her parents' Orthodontic practice before he dropped the news of his job.

“Speaking of Ron, how is it going?” Harry changed the topic, picking at the muffin they had bought to share. It was blueberry because desserts with a lot of chocolate weren’t to Hermione’s tastes.

“We watched a film last night and he asked me questions the whole way through.” Hermione smiled, eyes distant as she recalled.

“Still doing that, huh?” He mirrored her fond smile, remembering every movie night between the three of them. It had become less common the busier they each became and eventually, stopped happening at all.

“Unless we watch a horror film, but you know I’m not interested in cheap scares and Ron’s nightmares kicking me awake.” She brought her cup up to her lips to take a long sip after blowing on it.

Harry snorted, knowing all too well the feeling of being woken up by a thrashing Ron kneeing him in the kidney. Not something he wanted to experience again.

The three of them had attended the same school since secondary. Harry was grateful he had somehow managed to weasel out of attending the school the Dursleys had wanted for him, otherwise he wouldn’t have met Ron and Hermione.

“Are you coming round to the Weasleys next week for dinner?” He changed the subject, glancing around the shop they were in as he waited for a reply.

“Of course, unless anything comes up.”

“I could never be a law student.” He shook his head, looking at her with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. Every time he talked to Hermione she seemed to be piled with work. He would say that was true for most of them, but Hermione took great pleasure in taking up the maximum workload and then some. It was awe-inspiring.

“Well,” She sniffed, chin rising ever so slightly “I do enjoy what I do. I can’t imagine going through this course if I hated the topic.”

“Don’t burn yourself out, Hermione.” He had only seen it happen a few times, but it was always a lingering concern in the back of his mind. Sometimes Hermione was so invested in the final result that she ignored the smaller details along the way.

Hermione’s phone lit up and vibrated loudly before she could reply to Harry. She picked it up, unlocking it swiftly. “It’s Ron. He said he doesn’t know about any jobs, but Dean said that the art department is looking for models and they’ll pay.”

“Really?”  Harry sat forward, the news easing a knot of worry in his chest he hadn’t even realised he had.

“That’s great news, he said to go ask at the department, and the advert went up pretty recently.” She looked up from her phone to smile at him.

Harry returned the smile before hesitating, glancing between his empty cup of tea and his watch before beginning to stand. “I better go ask then before too many people volunteer.” He began shoving his arms into his coat, pushing his chair back.

“Tell me what they said later and good luck!” She was watching him leave, one hand wrapped around her cup.

“Yeah, course! “ Harry leaned over the table, giving Hermione a quick one armed hug before picking up his bag and leaving. He was sorry to cut their meeting short but he knew she understood. A potential job was a pretty big deal.

It was only when he was sitting on the bus did he reflect on what exactly he was applying for. A model? Harry had never modelled for anything before; he had always been on the other side of the camera so to speak. He stared at his reflection in the glass of the window. Would they accept anyone? Even him, with his dark skin and hair that never laid flat? They were art students who just needed anyone to draw, right? It shouldn’t matter what he looked like.

Harry had always been a little self-conscious of his appearance, but over time he had found more confidence. But how could he have not been self-conscious, when he grew up with the Dursleys as his family? Never a polite word to be found in that house, from anyone. In his head he could still hear Petunia’s shrill voice shrieking about the state of his hair, Dudley’s jeering voice insulting his circular glasses and Vernon commenting about the colour of his skin.

As Harry grew older it hadn’t taken him long to realise he was different to everyone around him. His cousin, his aunt and his uncle all had white skin. Most of his neighbours were the same. So were the children in his primary school class.

He wasn’t the only one that noticed.

He thought it shouldn’t matter but apparently it did. Parents whispered to their children about him when they picked them up from school. He heard the word ‘foreigner’ thrown around and had to look the word up to realise what it meant.

It was an ugly feeling that arose in him when he realised that was why he was being avoided in the playground, why his cousin didn’t find it hard to recruit other kids to chase him around and spit insults at him.

It took him a while to understand why they were so ignorant, despite the fact he was no different than the rest of them. When he spoke he sounded the same as everyone else, he ate the same food and enjoyed the same books, but it wasn’t enough.

It had left its scars on him. However, finding friends who didn’t share the same mind set had helped him the most.

Hermione with her unfaltering, headstrong attitude and own dark skin helped him see the lies in the comments he had endured in his childhood. Ron, gauche but with a big heart, was always there with the offer of his friendship. Not only them, but all those he had met through them. The Weasleys, Neville, Luna, Cedric and Cho.

The last two had meant something special to him. He had been in a relationship with them both. Cho had been brief, and his first experience of being good enough to be wanted. Cedric had come a little later, when he had gotten older and realised exactly who he was. He couldn’t compare them to each other when they were so different. Last he had heard that they were both dating each other.

Although they didn’t talk often, things had ended amicably and he hoped they were happy together. Of course, he would always have a special place in his heart for them both, as cheesy as it sounded.

It was those relationships that partly helped raise his self-esteem. Though no longer living with the Dursleys played a big role, too.

He had worked hard and moved out, with the help of his parents’ savings. He found a passion in photography, which he was currently studying. For once he was getting to do what he wanted, with nothing to stop him.

With these thoughts in his head he had gotten off the bus and followed the signs to the art department.

He had asked the receptionist, who had directed him to go to a particular office, which he found with little trouble. Perhaps it was a sign that things were finally going right for him.

A sign on the door read ‘A. Dumbledore.’ Steeling himself, Harry knocked firmly. He wasn’t sure how this would go at all, and wondered if it would be anything like an intense job interview. He was dressed nicely. But not his best, he thought, looking down at his dress shirt and jeans. Everything else had been dirty, otherwise he’d be wearing his usual attire of a t-shirt or sweater.

Truth to be told, he’d been in a little bit of a slump after being fired. Buying that new camera had both elevated and sunk his mood. Elevated because he had his eye on it for a good while and gotten it just when it had gone on sale. Sunk because of the depressing reality that was watching your bank account balance drop steeply.

He wasn’t completely hopeless though: he still had one job. It was expensive living in London. His hobby did cost a fair amount of money but compared to art it was hardly much in the grand scheme of things. It could be worse, Harry reasoned.

He glanced around after knocking, eyeing the paintings hung up in the hallway. He’d heard how much all these materials cost roughly and it was exhausting just thinking about the number.

His head swung back round when the door in front of him opened. An elderly man stood there, looking at him expectantly.

“Can I help you, young man?” Dumbledore didn’t seem annoyed by his sudden appearance, smiling pleasantly. He had a long, white beard and eyes that were a clear shade of blue.

“Er- Hello, my name is Harry Potter. I heard that you were hiring models?” Harry wished he had a leaflet or something of the sort to hold up, to make himself feel less awkward.

Dumbledore blinked, something in his words making him examine Harry more closely than the previous cursory once over. Probably his suitability to be a model, Harry reckoned.

“Yes, you are correct. We could use one or two more. Why don’t you come in?” Dumbledore stood back, opening the door wider. Harry stepped into the room, looking around as covertly as possible. It was an interesting room, every inch of it seemed personalised. Bookcases with trinkets on the shelves, alongside thick books. Some artwork was on the wall, though Harry didn’t look closely, too aware he was here for a job and not a social visit.

“Take a seat.” Dumbledore sat behind his desk, appearing at home, and gestured to the few seats in front of the desk. Harry sat on one, manoeuvring his bag so it rested on his lap. “So you would like to life model for some of the classes?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry had vaguely heard the term before, but never looked it up. “There aren’t any specific requirements, are there?” Dean would have told him through Ron if there were, right?

“No, not at all. Although experience would be preferred, I wouldn’t turn away amateurs. Do you have any experience in this field, Harry?”

“No I don’t, but I can learn quickly.” Harry injected as much conviction as he could into the words, determined to not be turned away due to his lack of familiarity. Something about his statement caused the faintest of smiles to cross Dumbledore’s lips.

“Of course, it’s not an easy task for a beginner, to bare yourself in front of so many people. It requires a certain kind of confidence.”

“…Bare myself?” Harry repeated the words, feeling like he was missing something crucial in this situation. Dumbledore paused at that, peering at him over his glasses. His eyebrows were raised.

“You must know that this is nude modelling job?” Dumbledore seemed concerned about his ignorance of what he was applying for. Harry flushed at the look, swallowing hastily before speaking.

“R-right, yes I’m fine with that!” Outwardly, he was struggling to keep his confident countenance while on the inside his brain was working in overdrive to process the new information.

Why hadn’t it occurred to him that it would be nude? He thought back to the many great works of art he had seen and how many of the models were nude. Why would they draw him with clothes? It was a silly thing to assume.

He could do it; it wasn’t really a big deal. It wasn’t like he’d never been naked in front of someone else. He thought back to the sports changing rooms, where being naked wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Besides, it was for the money.

“Are you sure?” Dumbledore was resting his hands on his desk, leaning forward. Something about his gaze compelled Harry to be truthful.

Harry thought about the camera in his bag, that he had spent far too much money on. His former boss telling him he was fired.

“Yes, I’m definitely sure.” He repeated, more sure of his decision now that he wasn’t taken off guard.

“I’m glad to hear that then, Harry.” Dumbledore didn’t seem so serious anymore, smiling once more.

Harry left the office with all the details he needed, hand not cramping as it usually did after filling out forms. He was also feeling lighter, knowing he had a job under his belt. It wouldn’t pay as much as his previous job, but at least it was something to keep him going.

He resolved to call both Ron and Dean to thank them for the heads up on the opportunity. He also had to tell Hermione, before he forgot.

Now, he had the weekend to deal with the reality that was taking off his clothes in front of an entire art class.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a student.

He wasn’t studying just anything: he was studying art.

He was not mediocre, he was not average; he had never been anything less than exceptional and everyone knew it. ‘Oh, Tom? An amazing art student, I’ve never seen work so perfect,’ he would hear them say along with ‘His work belongs in art galleries. Seeing him work completely knocks you of all motivation, you know?’ He was good and he knew it.

Partly natural talent, of course. When he was younger he was hailed for his prodigious skills. It came easily to him. From nothing he built himself up to something great. An orphan with no name and empty pockets to someone well on their way to the top. He would make a name for himself. It was not a wish, it was his future.

He would make it reality. It was with this certainty built into his bones that he made every line, every mark on paper. His technique was flawless; hours of practice moulded him into something glorious.

Why was it then, that he was being berated on his work? Just yesterday one of his art professors, Dumbledore, had decided he had something particular to say to Tom.

“Tom, you know your work is beautiful. Your compositions show much thought but-”

Here Tom waited, breath held. But? There had never been a but.

Although - this was Dumbledore, and they had never seen eye to eye. He had never had him as a professor before this term, though.

“Your work lacks feeling.”

“Feeling.” Tom had repeated, voice flat.

“I see your technique needs no refining but I don’t see what you feel in your work. It seems ... lifeless.”

Here Tom had struggled to say silent, but managed. He had never heard anything more moronic in his life. How do you see feeling in lines? The old man may have well been speaking in tongues, it made no sense to him. He was pointing out something you couldn’t even see, looking for faults that weren’t even there. It made his anger rise so suddenly, so violently, that he clenched his fists until his knuckles shone white.

“Thank you for your critique, sir.” Here he would never ask for help, for guidance, not from Dumbledore. Why, he had always loathed the man from the first meeting. He would much rather stick hot pokers into his eyes, than ask Dumbledore how to fix his so-called ‘mistakes.’

Even though a few days had passed since that incident, Tom still felt frustration burning under his skin. He couldn’t stand it, to have his work referred to as anything less than perfect. It made him agitated, showing in the hard, jagged lines of his pencil as he did a warm up sketch. There was the feeling Dumbledore wanted, he sneered, working with it.

They would be sketching an unknown model in class today and, whoever they were, they were running a little late. It irritated him. Was this what he was in debt for?

At long last, the professor walked in, a man in a dressing gown trailing after them. Tom immediately turned to a fresh page on his easel, glancing at his materials to reassure himself they were all ready, although he knew they were.

There was a model’s dais in the center of the room and he and the other people in his class who had decided to show up at nine in the morning were laid out in a circle around the platform.

Seeing as he had nothing else to look at, Tom looked at the model. He looked around Tom’s age. His hair was black – and messy. There were circle shaped glasses perched on his nose and, after a moment, the model took off his robe without any fanfare.

Like everyone else, Tom allowed himself a moment to stare, running his eyes over the other man. His skin was dark hinting towards some south Asian descent if Tom had to guess. He perhaps was on the slightly thin side, but there was lean muscle hinting towards some sort of athletic hobby. Not enough to indicate it was a full time pursuit, however. He wasn’t that tall, and some faint scars lined his body.

Tom could immediately tell that the man had never life modelled before. As he got into a pose, he was hesitant, glancing over at the professor as if checking for reassurance. Tom watched as he seemed to steel himself, chin lifting slightly in determination as he got into a seated pose. He just so happened to sit facing Tom. It was this movement that piqued his interest.

Whenever they had these classes, there was nothing sexual about drawing nude people. Tom found he had no interest in women and only the faintest interest in men. It was as if being sexually attracted to people was something his mind had replaced with pure ambition. He occasionally felt stirrings of attraction, but those times were rare and few. Right now, he felt less attracted to the model’s body and more to the hints of personality that shone through his actions.

As he began to sketch, charcoal held loosely in between thin fingers, he also began to appreciate, however. He appreciated the stubborn set of his jaw, the narrow shoulders and knobbly knees. The tense line of the model’s shoulders only grew as the session went on. Tom could see he was getting more and more uncomfortable by the stares of the class.

Tom fed off it. The determination so present at the start of the session fading into something weaker was something he couldn’t keep his eyes off. He captured it in his art: the lowered eyes and the discomfort. Fingers traced the fresh lines on the paper, almost imagining those same fingers were tracing the model’s body.

They made eye contact for a moment. It was hard not to, as he was facing Tom’s direction. Tom looked at him from behind his easel, making no effort to hide the heat or the intensity in his eyes. The model’s breath seemed to catch at the look, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. It was clearly a visible effort not to move from his pose.

The other man broke eye contact first, eyes darting away to stare a spot in the corner. Tom realised his hand was still, as his attention had been caught for a moment too long by green eyes locked with his. At any other time he might have found such a distraction irritating, but, somehow, not in this situation.

As the model changed poses, leaning forward with his arms wrapped around his knees, he faced away from Tom. Not being able to see his expression caused Tom’s fingers to tighten around his charcoal piece, but he made do. It was another angle for him to work with, after all.

The three hours seemed to pass in an instant, but the sheaf of papers with the model drawn that Tom had in the end suggested otherwise. In the few breaks where the model had gotten up and stretched his tense muscles, Tom’s eyes had followed him as if glued. They hadn’t made eye contact after that one time.

Tom was convinced: This model was his muse. He had never felt this way with any other model. His mind raced with hundreds of drawings he could do involving this man. His hands twitched restlessly with the urge to continue drawing, even though the session was over. He knew what he had to do and wouldn’t rest until the man agreed.

All this and he didn’t even know the model’s name - It was frustrating.

The man was about to leave and everyone was packing up their materials. He seemed wayward by the sight of people’s art and couldn’t help but peer curiously at the results of three hours of posing. While he was craning his head to look at a woman’s water painting, Tom raised his hand, calling him over.

“Hey, would you like to see my work?” Tom plastered on a friendly smile, not wanting to scare him away by coming on too heavy. The man seemed to hesitate for a second, body twisting towards the exit for a fraction of a second before walking towards Tom. Victory thrummed through Tom’s veins, unintentionally making his smile a little darker in nature.

“Oh-  _ wow _ .” The man’s gasp was loud as he saw Tom’s easel. Tom had displayed the piece he had spent the longest on up front, where the man had been posing in a particularly uncomfortable position. “That’s amazing. I can’t believe that’s me.”

The praise went straight to Tom’s head and his back straightened, expression becoming smug. “Thank you. May I have your name?”

“Oh, uh, it’s Harry.”

HARRY. HARRY, HARRY, HARRY, HARRY, HARRY, HARRY. Tom repeated the name in his head, memorising it, carving it into his very soul.

“It’s nice to meet you, Harry. I’m Tom.” His tongue caressed the model’s name, pronouncing it like one would a benediction. Harry didn’t seem to know what to do, cheeks colouring awkwardly. It made sense, seeing as he was talking to someone who had just stared at his naked body for three hours. “You’re new to life modelling, right?”

“Yeah I am. Was it that obvious?”

“Only at first,” he reassured, knowing from experience how far flattery could get someone. “A few hours in and I might not have been able to even tell.”

“That’s good to hear.” Harry laughed, fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead nervously. Tom’s eyes darted to the revealed scar, lingering but not mentioning it. It was almost like a lightning bolt. How unusual. “I mean, I might have to do it again if the opportunity comes up.”

“Oh?” Tom prompted, raising his eyebrows. “Have to?”

“Yeah – I kind of need the money-“ Here he seemed to stop, perhaps realising how strange a thing this was to confess to a near stranger. Tom could have laughed out loud, feeling exultant. It was as if it was fate. The perfect chance had just been handed to him on a silver platter. His face lit up, as if an idea had just occurred to him, and not been thought about before they had even been introduced to each other.

“Say, I’m aware this may be a bit out of sorts but what would you say to modelling in private for me? For some drawings? I’ve been looking for a suitable model for a while now-“ this was a lie, “and I would pay you for your time, of course.”

“Me? Well, I don’t know-“ Harry hesitated, perhaps not wanting to seem too eager by accepting immediately. Or maybe he was perturbed by the offer - Tom couldn’t tell.

“Of course it’s just an offer. And I wouldn’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.” The filthiest lie he had said during the entire conversation. That was exactly what he wanted.

“Well – alright then. I could really use the extra money while I’m looking for a part time job.” Here the model seemed to relax for the first time, smiling up at Tom.

“Great, should we exchange numbers?”

“Yeah, let me just-“ Harry patted his pocket, seemingly remembering that he was just standing there in a robe and slippers. “Oh, um.”

“Here.” Tom held out his phone for Harry to enter his number. Harry flashed another grateful smile, entering his details with swift, nimble fingers before handing the phone back.

“Just give me a call or send a text, yeah?” Harry seemed eager to leave and get dressed. Although Tom would rather he didn’t, he understood.

“Of course. It was nice to meet you.” It was very nice, in fact. They were the last two people left in the room, everyone else having left. Those three hours spent with the model hadn't meant anything special to them, not like how every second of every minute had mattered to Tom.

“Bye, Tom!” Harry threw a wave over his shoulder as he left the room, not waiting for a response. Tom began slowly packing his work into his art folder, thumb brushing over Harry’s face immortalised in charcoal.

After he had collected his things he pulled out his phone. Harry had saved his name as ‘Harry (the art model).’ Tom’s lips stretched into a thin smile, changing it to a simple ‘Harry.’ There was no reason to worry about him not remembering Harry. Oh, even if he tried, he couldn’t forgot about him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the kudos!! kudos keep me strong.  
> ALSO. nephsech and hikari did some absolutely gorgeous art for this fic as part of the big bang, check it out: http://nephsech.tumblr.com/post/149254749717/art-for-the-tomarry-bigbang-my-piece-is-for-2b  
> http://merdesmiroirs.tumblr.com/post/149081478267

Modelling was an experience for Harry, to say the least. He mulled over that thought as he gazed out of the window.

The bus was crawling through the streets at a snail’s pace, cars almost at a standstill due to traffic. It was the typical amount of traffic for nine in the morning, meaning there was a lot of it. Getting to the art class on time was out of the question even though he had tried his best by waking up early.

When Harry finally reached his destination, however, he stumbled across a different professor than before. He was more than relieved to find out that didn't pose any problems. It was then only a matter of undressing in the bathroom and putting on the provided dressing gown.

He looked in the mirror, smoothing down his hair, which stuck up in all different angles thanks to the rush he’d been in to make it to the art department. He hadn’t wanted to be late for his first time modelling. It wouldn’t co-operate, the small amount of gel he’d put in it making it worse. Harry gave up. He’d tried a little harder with his hair today than usual, too conscious of the fact people would have their sole attention on him, preserving him in their artwork.

The professor was hardly any help, just telling him to “pose in any way that feels natural and hold it for around twenty minutes before doing another.” They probably assumed anyone with half a brain would be able to figure it out. Well, Harry wouldn’t give up before even starting.

There weren’t as many students in the classroom as he had expected. For some reason he’d built up the entire event in his head as him standing in the middle of a huge circle of students. In reality, it was similar but the number of art students was lacking. Perhaps they knew their employment options after graduation were limited.

Harry tried not to look around as he walked into the center of the circle, hands reaching for the tie on his dressing gown, all too aware all eyes would be looking at his naked body for the next three hours. He wasn’t embarrassed, he assured himself, knowing it was true. But maybe he had gotten himself way over his head. He took a deep breath, mind set on the pay check this stint would gain him, and pulled off his robe, setting it to the side.

He climbed onto the dais, looking over at the professor to see if he was giving any hints as to whether he was doing the right thing or not. There was approval. Alright then.

Harry held his pose, now looking straight ahead at one of the students.

At first, all he could see was the top of a head of black hair before the guy looked out from behind his easel.

They made eye contact. The artist strangely reminded Harry of a statue, pale and handsome. His dark eyes roved over every inch of Harry’s body and his expression seemed to morph from boredom to something indecipherable. His straight brows furrowed, lips parting as he alternated between ducking behind his easel and looking at Harry.

It was nothing out of the ordinary, considering the circumstances. To draw Harry he needed to look at him. However… Harry felt discomforted.

There was something in the man’s gaze, in his body language, that set him on edge. He looked almost… hungry. He felt himself tense, but couldn’t stop it.

It was as though he wasn't able to move his head, even if he wanted to. He was frozen by the heat behind the stare. It was as if he was being examined under a microscope, no chance of any of his flaws escaping undetected.

Maybe… the artist was really into guys. Or he was really into his art.

Then again, the guy was so good looking it was as if he belonged in an art gallery himself, not his work. Harry felt himself begin to flush at that thought and hoped it escaped unnoticed.

However, even in the midst of awkwardness and discomfort, his hands itched for a camera. He could imagine the scene now. It would be almost too easy to get the perfect angle. The artist had his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. If he could get one of those neatly styled strands of hair loose, and maybe smudge some charcoal on his face, then the photograph would be bloody amazing.

The lighting wasn’t half bad for an art classroom, too. Of course it made sense, considering art was all about visuals. Harry thought the photography department had the best lighting setup, but he wouldn’t be reluctant to admit the suitability of the art department lighting.

The twenty minutes of the first pose passed slowly, feeling almost too intimate with the air between them. Maybe he was just imagining it. He wasn’t forcing any relief, however, when he was able to turn away from the man when taking a new position.

Even with his back turned and arms wrapped around his legs, he could still feel the guy’s eyes on him. Almost like they were burning into his skin. He slowly blew out a breath. His glasses slipped down his nose, but he was unable to push them up.

Three hours of this?

It better be worth the paycheck.

After that first time, he made sure not to face the guy again, at most being perpendicular to him. It would set him too on edge, and this being the first time he’s ever modelled, it probably wasn’t a good thing if he wanted to be called back at another time.

He was extremely relieved when the three hours were up: his muscles ached from holding poses. It was as if he had just performed a particularly gruelling workout, like the times he and Ron found time to exercise together. He couldn’t wait to go home and sit in the shower under a spray of hot water.

He should be able to afford it after this morning.

Even so, he couldn’t help but be side tracked after he had gotten his robe back on. Some of the artists were packing up slowly and he took the opportunity to peek. Sure, he could appreciate art like any other normal person, but there was something special about seeing yourself drawn.

It was a little shock of pleasure,your brain going ‘that’s me!’, and it obviously wasn’t something that happened often to Harry. Of course, he recalled quick sketches Luna had done of him when they were teenagers but this was on an entirely new level.

These people studied art for a living. It was their profession and every day without rest they worked on improving. He was just admiring a woman’s abstract-looking painting when he heard someone call him over.

It was the guy again. His wide smile startled Harry for a brief second, as all he had seen of the artist was a serious expression. Then he registered what had been said and, curiosity piqued, headed over to the guy’s easel. Despite the discomfort he had felt, he wanted to know if the idea he had of the man as a serious artist matched up with reality.

The art was beyond words. It forced a gasp out of him. He couldn’t believe the student had done this in such a short time. If he wasn’t so busy staring, he wouldn't have suppressed the urge to send an admiring glance in the artist's direction.

When the time came for him to offer his name, he did so rather quickly, still hung up on the work. He craved to peel back the first paper and see the other sketches done of him.

“-what would you say to modelling in private for me?” Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Harry only caught the end of the offer and blinked, processing it.

The prospect was, without a doubt, slightly concerning. Harry wasn’t sure what type of modelling Tom was referring to. Clothed or nude? The former wasn’t as bad as the latter. Harry didn’t at all like the idea of being in a stranger’s house without clothes. He didn’t know Tom, after all. He knew that something had seemed to pass between them in those moments they had made eye contact. What he knew, as well, was that Tom drew him beautifully.

When it came to a class, it wasn’t strange, but with only one person watching him? That was a little awkward, to put it lightly.

Harry could admit to being a little selfish, though, and he wanted to see himself in Tom’s artwork again. He could watch a little more closely and see how Tom captured him in drawing as accurate as any photograph could. There was also the prospect of money. Maybe he would be able to eat something other than instant noodles and cheap fast food.

So he agreed, albeit a bit hastily. He was reminded of the fact of exactly how naked he was under his robe. It was fine, mostly, when he was being drawn, but now he was talking to one of the artists whose name he knew.

Harry was by no means a coward, but after three hours he was sick of this room. So he took the opportunity to make a speedy retreat, and to get his clothes back on. He felt a lot more comfortable and a lot less vulnerable when he was back in his familiar outfit.

He was free to leave and so he did. A wave of cold air hit his face as he left the building. He just wanted to go home and sit next to his heater. The classroom had been heated but now in the autumn weather he was beginning to feel the chill that seeped into his bones.

Getting onto the bus was only a temporary reprieve from the weather.

Harry wondered how big the art department was exactly. Was there even a slim chance Dean knew Tom? He decided there was no harm in asking, although it would be quite difficult, as he only had a first name to go on. Especially because it was such a _common_ first name.

He had Dean’s number and wasted no time sending a short message.

**Mon 5 Nov (1:05pm)**

Have you ever been in a class with a guy called Tom? Pale, pretty tall and with black hair?

**(1:09pm)**

_That Tom? Yeah, but I would still know him, even if I didn’t share a class with him._

**(1:10pm)**

How come?

**(1:11pm)**

_All the professors praise him. He’s talented as fuck; the perfect exemplar._

Harry paused at that statement, just taking it in. It fit in perfectly with what he’d seen today.

**(1:12pm)**

Do you know him personally?

**(1:13pm)**

_Not really. I mean, I’ve spoken to him once. He seemed alright. Why so interested?_

**(1:13pm)**

He asked me to model in private for him - is that weird?

**(1:14pm)**

_Uhhhhhhh… maybe a little, but if he pays you then money is money, right? I heard you got fired._

**(1:14pm)**

Yeah. So I guess it’s alright then?

**(1:16pm)**

_Everything will probably be fine. He seems like the type of bloke who’s dead serious about his work, you know?_

**(1:17pm)**

Well, thanks for your help Dean. Talk to you later?

**(1:17pm)**

_Yeah, later!_

Harry looked up, realising the bus had almost reached his stop in the time he’d been talking to Dean. Tom still hadn’t texted him, which was unfortunate, as he didn’t have Tom’s number yet.

He wondered. Maybe Tom regretted asking and would never send a message? Or maybe it wasn’t important enough for him to remember. Dean did say he seemed serious about his studies, though.

It wasn’t even half an hour later when he finally reached home. Harry plopped onto the couch, exhausted. He sighed before getting up after a moment and heading over to his kitchen counter. Just as he moved to reach for a tea bag, his phone lit up. He stared at it in surprise, having been lost in his thoughts, before leaning forward to grab his phone. It was Tom, as he had hoped.

**(1:33pm)**

_It’s Tom here. Sorry for taking a while to message you._

**(1:33pm)**

It’s fine! How are you doing?

**(1:34pm)**

_I had to sort something out with my portfolio, but I’m doing well. Thank you for asking. How are you?_

Harry couldn’t help but notice Tom texted as elaborately as he spoke.

**(1:34pm)**

I’m fine, I just got home when I got your message.

**(1:35pm)**

_I hope you haven’t taken back your acceptance of my offer?_

**(1:35pm)**

No, don’t worry about that, I’m still up for it.

If anything, Harry was surer of his answer after talking to Dean.

**(1:35pm)**

_That’s wonderful to hear. I’m interested in drawing you in a similar way to how you modelled for the class._

**(1:36pm)**

You want me to pose naked?

**(1:36pm)**

_…Unless that would make you uncomfortable? I’m fine with the opposite._

He gnawed at his bottom lip, staring at the message. It seemed clear that Tom would prefer the opposite and he was only compromising. Harry didn’t want to do something he was uncomfortable with, though.

**(1:37pm)**

I would rather be wearing clothes.

**(1:37pm)**

_That’s fine. I’ll pay you £10 per hour, how does that sound?_

Harry blinked at the message, amazed. The amount was almost double compared to what he had been paid to model for the art department. He hadn’t been expecting that much and though he didn’t want to push his luck, he had to make sure.

**(1:38pm)**

Are you sure?? That’s a lot for only an hour.

**(1:38pm)**

_Money is unimportant when it comes to increasing the quality of my work._

**(1:38pm)**

If you’re sure, then that sounds great. Wow, thank you!

**(1:38pm)**

_Would you prefer to meet at your home or mine?_

Harry hesitated. It would make more sense to meet Tom at wherever he lived, so he didn’t have to lug around any art supplies he needed. It was surprising that he was even being offered a say in it.

**(1:39pm)**

Yours is fine. Just send your address and I’m sure I can find it.

Tom did so and Harry found out that they actually didn’t live too far apart, though Tom seemed to live in a nicer area than Harry did

**(1:39pm)**

_Is tomorrow a good time or would you prefer another day?_

**(1:40pm)**

I can do tomorrow. At around 3pm?

**(1:42pm)**

_That works wonderfully for me. I look forward to seeing you then, Harry._

**(1:42pm)**

See you then, Tom.

Harry put down the phone and realised how much time had passed while he was engrossed in their conversation. He looked down at his unmade cup of tea, feeling more upbeat at the prospect of earning so much money. Money he would have to endure hours with Tom for.

Strangely enough, Harry didn't mind so much anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited with jaleesa screaming as background noise . also . gangnam style at half speed . the next chapter will take a lot longer to post, just so you all know. btw i luv all the comments even if i don't reply!

According to the map on his phone, this was the place. Harry knocked twice after looking around the empty hallway. He only had to stand there for a few seconds before footsteps sounded and the door swung open.

There stood Tom, dressed nicer than expected. Harry had imagined him to be wearing something stained with paint like an artist cliché, but no, Tom looked smarter than Harry did.

Harry glanced down self-consciously at his worn hoodie and jeans, then at Tom’s button down shirt and slacks. He hadn't wanted to overdress this morning, even though the thought of Tom drawing him in the outfit he chose had been stuck in the back of his mind.

Come to think of it, Tom had been wearing something similar on the day they met, so maybe he wasn’t underdressed at all? _I mean, really, who gets that dressed up for a class at nine in the morning?_

“Harry.” He greeted him with a charming smile, face open and welcoming as he stepped back. “Come in.”

Harry stepped into the flat, trying to be discreet at glancing around, even though it was to be expected.

It was bigger than his own flat - that was for sure. It seemed very neat except for a pile of art supplies in the corner. If there was any mess at all, it was out of Harry’s sight. Every piece of furniture seemed to go well together.

Harry wryly thought back to his mismatched sofa and chairs, all bought second hand. They certainly had their own charm, but no elegance when compared to Tom’s interior design.

Not that Harry cared. He had never been the type of guy to have such a stylish home. As long as it was a cosy space and he could watch television, it was good enough for him. He had never had much – the Dursleys had seemed intent on giving him the bare minimum – so anything he could afford was a luxury to him.

“Er, nice to see you again.” Harry spoke before Tom had a chance to open his mouth again. “This time clothed.”

Why did he say that?

“I’d hope so.” Tom raised his brows, expression appearing more genuine than the fake smile he had worn a moment ago. “I take it my home wasn’t difficult to find?”

“No, it was fine, really.” Harry looked around again, feeling out of his element. Tom shut the front door behind him.

“Tea?” Tom was already walking over to his kettle, anticipating Harry's answer. The living room and kitchen shared the same space.

“That would be great.” Harry chanced a glance at Riddle’s feet when his back was turned, and seeing he was wearing only plain black socks, took off his own worn trainers. It was interesting to catch a glimpse of an artist’s working space and he could think of a collection of photos he would like to take.

“You can sit over there.” Tom nodded his head in the direction of his sofa, next to the coffee table where he had some art supplies laid out alongside a sketchbook. “Feel free to look through it.”

“Right.” Harry made his way over, taking a seat and putting down his bag. The sofa was very plush and he sank into the cushions immediately. It reminded him of the seats at the Dursley’s house, which he hadn’t been allowed to sit on unless nobody was around. He snuck another glance at Tom, and seeing his back was still turned, flipped open the sketchbook.

On the first page was a sketch dump of random objects: a glass of water, a candle and a bottle, to name a few. The next few pages seemed to go along the same vein in regards to subject matter, until he turned the page once more and there was a portrait.

It was of a man, much older than either of them, and he looked very similar to Tom. At first Harry thought he was looking a self-portrait, but something seemed off. Taking a closer look, he realised it was another person entirely.

If Harry had to guess, he would say the man in the drawing was in their mid-forties. It seemed like they had aged gracefully, if the faint wrinkles lining their face were anything to go by.

“How many sugars do you want?” Tom’s voice cut through his thoughts like a knife and Harry nearly jumped, almost having forgotten where he was. He spun around to see Tom gazing at him, teaspoon held expectantly in the air.

“Oh, two is fine.” He answered hastily, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Tom hummed in response before carrying the tray over to the table. Harry picked up the sketchbook and placed it on his lap to make room.

Tom didn’t show any surprise when he saw what drawing Harry had been looking at. Instead he smiled thinly and nudged Harry’s cup towards him. Harry automatically held his hands around the tea cup, grateful for the warmth after the chill of the outside air.

He noticed the china was particularly fancy, as Ron would say. Harry himself didn’t own anything similar, used to drinking his tea out of big, ordinary mugs.

This time Tom spoke before him.

“It’s my father.” He answered the unspoken question that hung in the air, eyes locked on the open sketchbook for a moment, before slowly drifting up to meet Harry’s own eyes. There was no pride nor any sort of warmth in his words. It was as if he merely stated a simple fact. Harry definitely picked up on that, but didn’t know how he would even go about taking it apart.

“It’s really good,” he said instead, earnestly, though he thought the drawings of himself were better. Not just because they were of himself, but there was something else, something that the portrait didn't have. The portrait was wonderful in technical terms - all the proportions seemed accurate - yet he couldn't help but feel like something was lacking.

“Thank you.” Tom was watching him carefully, dark eyes sharp, probably having picked up on his unsaid words. The weight of that observation made the back of his neck prickle.

“But, I mean-“ Harry hesitated shortly, before barrelling on bravely, deciding that even if he was no drawing expert he was sure of the fact he had a pretty good eye, “It seems like it’s missing something?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Missing something?” Tom repeated, pronouncing the words as if something sour was in his mouth. Harry's mind raced, trying to think of a way to explain it.

“It’s like… you know when you take a good photograph?”

“No, actually. I’m not a photographer.”

Harry ignored the dry comment, caught up in his explanation. “Well when you do you’ll know it’s perfect. You’ll capture every emotion in the scene, so that when you’re looking at the photograph later, you can almost feel them as if you were there.”

“Feel them?” Tom seemed doubtful and caught up in his words all at once. Harry had no idea if it was because of his passion and enthusiasm that had shone through in his explanation.

“You know, like when you read a really good book?”

“I see.” Tom was staring, head tilted before he brought his cup to his lips, breaking eye contact. “I think I have experienced something like that, very recently in fact. This particular work just happens to be quite old.”

“Oh well – sorry if I overstepped any boundaries.” Harry hastened to apologise, thinking that perhaps this one drawing was just a fluke. He had seen those sketches of his body, after all, and they were entirely on a new level.

“You’re not. In fact, I rather enjoy your feedback and your method of explanation.” There was humour in his gaze, and a sharp smile playing on his lips. Harry found himself staring for a moment, struck by how handsome Tom was.

“You’re a photographer, then?” Tom continued, seemingly not noticing the admiration or ignoring it.

“Yeah – I study it. We go to the same university,” Harry said lamely, words having abandoned him when he needed them most. Thankfully, Tom seemed skilled in the art of conversation.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing some of your work, sometime. It’s only fair after you’ve seen some of mine, isn’t it?”

“’I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours’ is it?” Harry laughed weakly, that particular saying being the only thing to pop up in his head.

“Oh, that comes _much_ later.” Tom’s voice dropped a pitch and the intense expression from their first meeting was back.

Harry’s brain slowed to a halt.

Hang on a minute. Was he – being flirted with?

“What.” His voice was strangled, and mortifyingly, he could feel his cheeks becoming warm. He hoped he hadn’t interpreted that reply wrong.

“I hope the tea is fine.” Tom smiled enigmatically, switching the subject entirely. For a second, Harry wanted to slap his irritatingly gorgeous face, until he remembered he was here for an actual job.

“It’s great.” Harry narrowed his eyes, not sure what Tom was playing at. “So you want to draw me, right?”

“Would you like to get started?” Tom didn’t even glance at the clock or anything, time apparently not an issue to him.

“If you’re ready.” Harry hadn’t finished his tea, so drank it all in one gulp, like he was downing a shot. Tom raised his eyebrow, reaching for the sketchbook that was still resting on Harry’s lap.

“Do I need to do anything special?” Harry asked, putting the cup down. He definitely wasn’t feeling as awkward as he had when he was modelling nude. At least he got to keep his clothes on.

“Maybe a pose.” Tom was sharpening his pencils with brutal efficiency, having rolled up his sleeves once more. Harry’s attention drifted to the precise movements of those long fingered hands, before snapping back up to Tom’s face. He hadn’t noticed his drifting gaze, thankfully. “You have some experience in that now, right?”

“Right. How long should I hold it?”

“I’ll tell you when you can relax.” There was something ominous about the way Tom said those words, but Harry said nothing, only stretching out his arms in preparation.

“Any pose in particular?” Harry asked, wondering if he’d get lucky enough to sit as comfortably as he did now.

“Sit on the arm of the sofa, facing the window,” Tom directed. Harry moved to do exactly that, finding he was now perpendicular to the other man. He could see Tom, but only if he looked from the corner of his eye.

“Now turn your head towards me.” Harry did so, strangely feeling like Tom enjoyed giving orders a little too much. He couldn’t complain though. This was a job, after all, even if it did feel like a social meeting.

The position was a little awkward but not overly so. He wasn't sure if he would still think so after keeping the pose for an extended amount of time. He could see Tom clearly now: there was a considering expression on his face as he gazed at Harry.

“This fine?” Harry asked after the moment of silence became too much to bear.

“Wonderful.” He was just staring, one hand held loosely around a pencil. It was a little awkward, especially with the pose Tom had chosen, as they were forced to stare at each other. Or at least, Harry was forced to stare at Tom.

It wasn’t as if it was a bad view, but he still felt a little uncomfortable.

At last Tom began to draw, pencil moving in quick strokes, as if he had too much he wanted to get down onto paper at once. Harry got a perfect view of him at work, head bent down, hair styled to perfection.

It was quiet, except for the sounds of their breathing and Tom sketching. Harry wanted to open his mouth and start a conversation, but he didn’t want to break Tom’s concentration. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Tom was looking up again.

Harry stared back, not even attempting to shy away from his gaze.

“You’re doing it again.” Tom broke the silence suddenly, appearing to suppress a smirk.

“Doing what?” Harry couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. Staring at him, maybe?

“The way you defiantly tilt your jaw up.” Tom mimicked what he had apparently been doing. Harry was silent, surprised. He hadn't been aware he was doing that, especially not more than once. If Tom was telling the truth, at least.

“You did it in the class, too, I remember,” Tom continued, seeing Harry was not replying.

“That’s a weird thing to notice, isn’t it? But I guess it’s part of your profession to notice everything.” Harry, now more conscious of himself than ever, couldn’t help but tilt down his jaw. It had been raised but he wasn’t sure how that translated to him being defiant. Maybe it was something he did when he was unsure in a situation and was steeling himself?

It felt strange to have someone notice that and point it out to him. It was a bit intimate, like the way a lover would become attuned to your habits after spending a large amount of time with you. Like how he remembered Cedric would drum his fingernails when he was impatient and snort when he laughed really hard at something.

“You’re good at expressing your emotion without words.” Tom offered up the compliment, a long winded way of saying he appreciated his body language.

“Is that why you wanted me to model for you?” Harry asked suddenly, the question having lingered on his mind long after their first meeting had passed. The praise did make him pleased, an affirmation that he wasn’t a complete failure at modelling. It felt nice to have someone with experience to commend him like that.

“Partly.” Tom wasn’t looking at him, pencil now making long, languid sweeps across the page, carving out Harry’s shape. “It was also a matter of convenience. You just happened to appear at a good time.”

“It’s lucky, then, that we met at a time where we could both help each other out.” Although the comment may have seemed sarcastic to some, Harry meant it earnestly. It really was good fortune for him to find a job like this so easily. Perhaps his string of bad luck was finally ending.

“Luck.” Tom repeated the word as if it was foreign to him. “Do you believe in it?”

“I can’t imagine what else it could be.”

Tom looked up, dark eyes roving over Harry’s face, matching the art to the reference with his pencil. He continued to speak as he worked. “Perhaps your own hard work and dedication?”

“Maybe,” Harry considered it, corner of his mouth twisting momentarily. “Though not in this situation.”

“Tell me, Harry, have you heard of something called the locus of control?”

“Can’t say I have.” He pondered the term, wondering where exactly this was going.

“It’s simple Psychology. It refers to the extent to which someone believes they can control events affecting them. Those with an external locus credit their successes and failures on external forces, like luck. Others, like me, have an internal locus meaning they credit their successes and failures only on themselves and how much effort they put in.” Tom spoke patiently, with the air of a man who was all too used to explaining things.

“I guess I’m more of the external one.” It was starting to feel surreal, being drawn and taught Psychology all at once. He thought back to all the circumstances in his life that he couldn’t control at all. The Dursleys, for one. “Definitely.”

“I see. Interesting.” The murmur was quiet and Harry wouldn’t have caught it if it wasn’t for the fact the room was silent save for the scratch of lead on paper. Harry waited for an explanation, but when none came, he cleared his throat.

“Was there a point in bringing that up?”

“Just to satisfy my own curiosity.” Tom shifted in his seat, leaning back slightly. His legs were incredibly long. Long enough that, no matter position he took, he couldn’t stretch them out comfortably. “Something so small can change so much about someone. Everything they do can be affected by one attitude out of many.”

“Are you always so serious?” Harry couldn’t help but break the line of conversation, disregarding completely that Tom had teased him a short while earlier. Surprise flashed on Tom’s face before changing to something inquisitive.

“Perhaps it is you who is causing my reflective mood.”

“What, am I inspiring or something?”

“Yes.”

The straightforward answer to his jest caught Harry off guard, and he blinked, lips parting but not knowing what to say. Inspiring was never a word he used in relation to himself. It was a word reserved for perfectly-timed sunrises, for speeches that lifted heavy hearts and spirits, not for a man like him.

There was no sign of mischief on Tom’s face. He had been completely serious when he said it. It was almost intimidating to Harry.

“You do have a strange idea of inspiration.” He gazed at Tom in an entirely new light, wishing he knew what the other man was thinking. What did he see when he looked at Harry?

“I do believe you are the only one who would tell me that.” Harry almost did a double take when he realised Tom was smiling. It was small, but it was there.

He didn’t mention it, content to sit in silence with the new thoughts swirling around in his head.

Time passed quickly after that. Tom only asked Harry to do one other pose, something comfortable compared to what he had been doing before.

Harry found it easy to relax after they had finished. He rotated his joints and stretched out his fingers. When the artist stood up, Harry's eyes followed Tom's sketchbook. It was a detail picked up on by Tom.

“Here.” Tom held out the page so Harry could look at the drawing he had spent the longest on, the one he’d drawn while they were talking.

It was beautiful, Harry could admit easily. There was a strange disconnect between some parts of the drawing, as if he’d stopped mid-line and picked up the pencil months later to continue. It didn’t ruin it, however, only adding to the piece.

“It’s amazing.” Harry’s eyes were glued to the sketchbook held in Tom’s outstretched hand. Tom made a pleased noise before withdrawing, closing the book carefully and placing it on the table.

Harry took that as his cue to leave and threw his bag over his shoulder, walking over to the door. Tom took his sweet time following as Harry pulled on his shoes.

“I’d like to see you again,” Tom said suddenly, assuaging Harry’s fears that this had been a one-time event.

“I’m free in a few days, after my shift. Does that work for you?” Harry pushed up his glasses as they had been slipping down the bridge of his nose.

“Perfect. You can message me the details.” It was a command and not a question, Harry noticed. Tom did that a lot in the short time he'd known him.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Harry smiled at him as Tom opened the front door. “I’ll see you, then?”

“Goodbye, Harry.” He was watching, one hand holding open the door, tall and present as Harry stepped out of his flat. Harry left, feeling those eyes burn holes into his back until he was out of sight.

Harry felt the effects of that stare the entire way home.


End file.
